“the unbound unbinding: an admixture of words and swords…
that will cut a newborn cord of reciprocity of thee and me,
miracle!
thereby, an unbound binding that ties and frees us from
and connects us nonetheless by our shared senses…”

<!>
these words, recalled well,
for they but a newborn issue of a few days, and the notion of binding that
frees us into reciprocity yet buzz~hums
in my brain

the contradictory nature of a cutting
which ties us together,
that an unbinding binds us even more tightly,
I struggle, to better understand the nature how an unraveling
of our connection somehow ties us closer

but re-envisioning
Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel in my mind’s eye,
that sparking space tween God’s finger outstretched
to bring the enlivening of his spirit to His first enervate, Adam,
the original of we humans,
somehow sates my confusion

to touch each other
at the most primitive basis,
we require a space
between us, in order to fulfill,
a contract contact
of completion and binding

and this bestills and bestirs
my puzzlement,
a space electric necessary
to permit us to
close the human circuitry

!and I am contented,
the contradiction
no more, I sense the
need to close gaps
tween us certify our human resources
for it is the permanent invisible grasping
of our loving minds that transcends
overpowers gaps,
bringing tears of joy to my eyelids,
even as I write these words,
and greet this morning
with
optimism
that every space
brings a richer
closure!!

<>

”To dream by the oak and awake by the sea
when August has ripened and turned Jubilee
you must enter dominion of summer's delight
and live in the rapture of candescent light

Oh to live and to love one must first learn to kiss,  
the kinetics of summer, with eternal bliss.”

~from vienna bombardieri’s poem, “Kinetics Of Summer~
(with her kind permission)

<>

First verse pinpoints accurate, this,
my spot!
by oak and sea,
my precise longitude and latitude, where my summertime
eyes open to receive the gift of morning’s light, observing
the conjunction of land, hard by the sea, the land-ed avian gentry
and sea~sailor birds interacting, sharing the uprising currents,
for sport and observation, travel and pleasured sailing,
these “Masters of the Sky can fly for hours (or days), while barely flapping,” and this verse stuns, and
my shock,

at these, her words
my breathing is gasped and grasped
by oak and sea, for so it be,
this is where
my morning’s operatic scrum, ballet and dance hall hullabaloo,
my diurnal natural choreography is performed,
while slow sipping my very heated first coffee

it was here
that I learned to love more easily,
for the kinetics of summers trio of sun, sky, and moderate breezes,
lulled the turbulence of my disheartened lives into an easier
order, the world~surround, a living, breathing exercise that
warmed the spirit, cooled the soul, and spoke without uttering
a single word,
here dear person, is the where and the when,
the comfort of the natural-blanket
that enwraps, covers, cherishes the atmosphere entire,
containing the healing elixirs and protective ointments,
that remove the
plaque of life’s accumulated injuries, slights and scar tissue

simply put,
here I breath freely,
here I see with clarity
here the infusions of
living in nature, prolongs,
restore, remind, enliven
and enhances,
the intermixture of
body and soul

here in actual deed,
the kiss of summer bliss
upon
my tiring cell’s walls,
are resurrected even unto the nuclei,
by the warm breath of sun life and sun light,
and the breezes of salty sweet caramel air
and under their loving, combined-dominion
am I
resurrected and will yet sense,
one more Jubilee again
as I lay dreaming
by the oak and the sea…

are the strongest muscle one needs to exercise daily in order to

live not only a longer life,

but a better one too!
<>

<>

walking the feeble line
——————————

there is a name for what is witnessed nearly nightly,
common ****** and/or scientific, when I awake circa
3 AM,  and the entire sky is overhung with a stolid,
calmly, ponderous inverted ******~single, sky-filling cloud,
with  faint, ragged line of far distant of didactic, urban and natural light, an imagery what s presumably the end of the world insofar as far as the human mind can interpolate the faraway mystique, for our
modern eyes see but cannot necessarily comprehend  the enormity and the simultaneous limiting granularity of the night horizon,
when it is
just outside through the clear glass, this enormous fog that is indescribable, an overwhelming, inconceivable conception that our ancestors took for granted as a natural demarcation of everything physical,
of our world’s entirety.

3:47 AM when the semi-roused mind bids the entirety of me
to awaken, ascertain the mystery of the sky and the sounds of rushing water within the confines of the cottage, both
which have no earthly reason to be simple, self-explanatory.

the parallel of external state to body internal,
comes first to mind when I creakily stand,
to better understand
the grandeur vision seeing, and the noises
so localized hearing, that a time/body disorientation disorder
is the sole explanation for my disrupted feeble state of mind,
physical and mental, occupational hazarding
  of my confused existence.

are you still here?
are u coming along with me on this journey?

amazing, if yes is your cognitive reply!

is this a poem, an essay, a plaintive wail for a general infirmity
that is irreconcilable with facts and the imagery of a mobile
man, who yet dodders and toddles, when stumbling stiffly through the fodders, them open spaces of his mind, and his physicality,
both stumbling erratically like that sort of
out there, sort of not,
feeble line in the sky,
and the feeble line inside him of a shuffling old man he knows or recognizes not, hence the title of the poem, created in a millisecond of cellular cognition, whose explanation, exploration
and expiation of his existence needing some kind of sensible
interpretation.

edging past 4AM, WITH NO answer for anything clouding through the rivulets of the mind, he summons up the time
in memoriam summary of all men, for all essential existence,

it is what it is,

that neither satisfies at all but just sufficiently,
that he could put down the imagined pen, pull the cover beneath the chin line, letting sleepy reign over him once more,
and perish the thought,
he will do it all over again,
tomorrow some twenty four hours hence, thankful the murk
of clouds prevents him from seeing
a battlefield of stars, which

too, comprehensively incomprehensible to the feeble
line he hopefully, is yet then still a straddle.

good night you boon companion,
meet you on the other side
of the line, which is what lines are for, a demarcation between
you and me that we welcome, to cross wordlessly and word fully,
and shall do, as is our due, again,
soon enough.

g’night!
4:26 AM